


(Gratuitous hurt Jaskier fic)

by ClaraCivry (Kat_Of_Dresden)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-20 05:35:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22944010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_Of_Dresden/pseuds/ClaraCivry
Summary: Here's a fic where Jaskier is sick or hurt and the others are worried about him.Prompts welcome!1. Jaskier has a venom laced wound. Geralt has to cauterize it. It's not pretty.2. Yennefer accidentally hurts Jaskier3. Bad guys drown Jaskier to get Geralt to talk4. Jaskier has a bad fever5. Jaskier is bleeding through his bandages while riding on roach6. Two words: shock collar7. Jaskier has an infected wound and a bad fever but needs to tell Geralt something8. Pinned by wreckage9. Denied food as punishment10.Internal bleeding11. Tortured for information12. Raspy breathing
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 82
Kudos: 1206
Collections: Angsty Angst Times, Witcher





	1. Harmful healing

He knew it was a dangerous creature to face on your own. The venom of this specific breed of monster could kill you in a matter of minutes, and was fast. And had eight legs and twenty four eyes. So yeah, Geralt had been a bit worried, so much so that Jaskier had picked up on it, and had followed him.

  
It was good in a way, because if he was honest, it was true that Geralt wouldn't have made it unscathed without the bard's help. He distracted the beast so that while it was busy trying to get some singer flesh, Geralt could bury a sword in its head. But it wasn't good in the way that Jaskier had been injured, a decent sized round wound there, below his right shoulder blade, shining bright red. Bloody and oozing and just... Ugh so not good.  
  
Jaskier had probably not been injected with the venom, that would be a puncture wound and this was more like.... chafing. But still, when those creatures got attacked they kind of oozed a watered down version of the venom, which meant Jaskier had more time, but if he wasn't healed properly the venom would and could end up stopping his breathing, stopping his heart. Unless something was done.  
  
"We need to close that up."  
  
"...'s just a scratch."  
  
"No, Jaskier..."  
  
Wait, was letting him know that he could die from that small wound going to help Jaskier at all? Wouldn't it be better if he continued thinking it was a scratch?  
  
 _What would be better is that he wasn't in the risk of dying every other day, you fool of a Witcher, what would be better is for you to look after your.... bard better._  
  
The thing was, what to do now? He had the antidote for the venom, but he'd drunk it himself, preemptively, and now there was none left. It didn't occur to him to leave some for Jaskier, just in case.

 _No wonder you have only one friend, you idiot. Well, 80% of one if the blue in his fingertips is any indication._  
  
"Geralt... I don't feel... Don't feel good..."  
  
 _Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck._  
  
Something needed to be done, something quick and fast acting. The idea of the all kill iron came to him.... But he had never used it in a human before. And he would need to put it over all of a wound that wasn't small. About the size of a hand palm, which meant the process could be long.   
  
But Jaskier's eyes were drooping. The iron was the only solution that could be used for this particular problem.  
  
It was a small thing, like two metal rings put together, you pressed it against your wound and it was enchanted to kill all kinds of disease makers: molds, venoms, even the magic ones. The iron killed everything except the larger being (a Witcher, usually) but it burned liked hell. And you had to be careful to apply it in all entry points of the cause of the illness, or the thing (venom, in this case) could still spread and kill you.  
  
But... Fuck.  
  
It was usually for puncture wounds, stuff like that. Geralt had never used it in something so big, and a human. A human he cared about.  
  
 _Play it cool, Geralt. No need to scare the man._  
  
"I'm just... Wounds from this thing are bad. I'm gonna have to cauterize it with this. You'll feel better." Jaskier nodded, trusting. He shouldn't trust Geralt so much, probably.   
  
It was not going to feel better.   
  
When Geralt pressed the iron against the corner of Jaskier's wound, the bard howled, pain spreading to each of his extremities, to every part of his body, his mind drowning in agony.   
  
He was looking at Geralt with betrayal in his blue eyes.   
  
"I'm sorry, but it needs to be done. It hurts now, but it will stop any venom from spreading in your blood."  
  
And now Jaskier was looking at him with puppy eyes and sorrow and just nodding through his tears. Silent.   
  
_You had to drink all the antidote, didn't you? Why do you never take Jaskier into account? He's saved your life and now you're torturing him with an iron._  
  
Geralt put the iron next where he'd put it before, he was supposed to circle all the edges of the wound, and then the inside part. Jaskier screamed again. Geralt wanted to do something, but didn't know what.   
  
His experiences with humans in pain were fairly limited. But he hated seeing Jaskier like this, hated the pain he was causing him. Jaskier was the light to his days, he'd brought a lot of good into his life, had been constant and cheerful and sought him out... And how had he reciprocated? With bad looks, hurtful words and now excruciating pain, as a thank you to step in the middle of an attack and save his life.   
  
"Stay still, or it'll take more time."   
  
_Geralt.... The man is in agony, say something.... Nice_  
  
"If there was another way, with less pain... But there isn't."  
  
There were tears falling down Jaskier's face.   
  
"Do what you must."  
  
Geralt wanted to punch the world, destiny and himself. Repeatedly. Jaskier was no angel, but he was a loyal and faithful friend, and he didn't deserve all the horrors Geralt put him through.

 _Look at those eyes. Think of the songs. He's done done so much for you..._  
  
Another press of the iron. Another scream.   
  
_You're fucking hurting him, Geralt. Try to make it right._  
  
"Huh, uh mm.... It will be over soon. You just hold on, yeah?"   
  
Jaskier was biting his lower lip, tears flowing freely.   
  
Geralt would never admit it, but he hated it when the bard went quiet. It was often because he had no strength to talk, because he was hurt, because he was sick, because... Because he was in pain, like now.   
  
And it was up to Geralt to fill the silence and distract from the pain, and God, he didn't know how to that. Another press of the iron. Jaskier was holding to the grass on the floor under him and everything was dreadful. The blue was spreading, nearly to his wrists. Another scream. Fuck.   
  
"When we get back. We can share the coin. And you can rest, I... I can let you have the bed, all to yourself."  
  
And how was it that Jaskier looked even more hurt?   
  
"Or we can share. As you want. You are the... hum... wounded hero."  
  
Yes, almost a smile!   
  
Too bad it won't last long. The lower edge of the wound was even more painful to cauterize, and Jaskier ended up being sick from pain. And Geralt was wondering just how much pain a human body could take and if he was going to make Jaskier's heart stop faster than the venom with his "cure".   
  
_Curse every monster, curse all venoms, curse every part of the body that allows pain._  
  
"I'll finish soon, all right? You can ride roach on the way back."  
  
 _Hopefully just convalescent and not a cadaver._  
  
Jaskier was silent, his face crossed with tears, and sweat, say something encouraging, say something nice....   
  
"I'm sorry to be hurting you like this. You're... You're being very brave."  
  
And this was true. For all his screaming, Jaskier had let him do, hadn't ran away, hadn't shied away. Had taken it. He had faults, yes, but Jaskier was remarkably brave, following a witcher around with no weapons, taking punches, sleeping with spouses of dangerous characters. And he was being brave now, hurting like hell but not squirming, just looking at Geralt with that expression that said, "I trust you".   
  
_I'm not sure I deserve this trust. This loyalty. You._  
  
Geralt... He had emotions, but he wasn't exactly good at them. Identifying them, processing them. Now he was feeling an emotion that made him feel a weight in his chest, a lump in his throat. But seeing Jaskier in pain was not making him want to cry. At all.   
  
"Practically finished, Jaskier."  
  
Now came the worst part, where he had to put the iron in the middle of the wound and Jaskier was already too pale, too weak, too worn out... He passed out.   
  
Geralt was happy to do the rest of the process without the screams, but worried at how limp and lifeless the bard was.   
  
The good part was that it was done, quickly, efficiently. The bad part was that Jaskier wasn't waking up.   
  
He took the bard in his arms, maneuvered him on the horse. As they galloped, Geralt spoke, a futile attempt to wake his friend up. Why did words only come easy when you knew the other person couldn't hear you?   
  
"I'm going to make it up to you, you'll see. The most delicious foods, the lushest beds, lavender and mint and anything you want. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I didn't get you antidote. I'm sorry for all of it."  
  
When they got to the inn, Geralt asked for a healer, a bath, fresh clothes... And a poet to commission a song about the very brave bard who rode along Geralt of Rivia.   
  
And when Jaskier woke up...   
  
That was the first thing he heard.   
  
And he smiled.   
  


The pain was gone, but his friend had stayed.


	2. Hurt by a friend

They were... They were supposed to be friends now. At least that was what Jaskier had thought. Maybe he had fooled himself. Maybe they never been friendly, at all.

  
After some very Rocky beginnings and a lot of sass, a strange kind of bond had formed between Yennefer and Jaskier. She liked his sense of humour, and how little he judged her and everyone in general. He had a light and a way of enjoying things that was very welcome. He liked her "take no prisoners" attitude, the grandeur with which she moved about the world, all the stories held inside her. So yeah, there was a mutual respect and fondness there that was on its way to becoming friendship.   
  
Things weren't easy, of course, and Yen had a very... dark sense of humour, which could easily be mistaken as hostility. But Jaskier thought that he'd got the grip of her, of what she meant and what she didn't and that now there was not so much mocking at his expense. That the joke was not on him, but with him. That was what he thought. But then....   
  
There had been some sorcerer with a pet vulture-like monster, and it was taking their sweet effort for Geralt and Yennefer to finish off both of them. While the Witcher was trying to kill the monster Yen was dealing with the man, and there was a lot of mystical winds and chanting in unknown languages...  
  
Jaskier had only wanted to get away to some place where he would a good view, to take noteswhile his magic friends ended the foes. Somewhere a tad safer, somewhere that he wouldn't bother, somewhere away...   
  
But he'd been thrown against a wall, violently, by a gush of violet magic, his head exploding in pain.   
  
Huh. Maybe him and Yennefer weren't friends after all, he thought as his head started swimming and the world became blurry.   
  
*  
  
Yen hadn't seen him. She'd been so focused on ending this damn sorcerer who thought himself all high and mighty and just had lashed out at anything standing in her way. It was only when she managed to defeat the madman and Geralt came in that she saw him. They saw him.   
  
"Jaskier!"   
  
Geralt was at the unconscious man in seconds, gently slapping the face to try and rouse the bard. And Yen was vaguely remembering now... A presence that she'd just dismissed with a wave of her hand. Oh shit. And now Jaskier was laying against a wall, forehead bloody, made a heap of lifeless limbs. Looking concerning pale. Had she done that? She hadn't meant to do that, hadn't meant to hurt him. At all.   
  
She approached, almost without thinking about it, almost without realizing it and saw the blue eyes, open and then fill with fear when they saw her, the bard trying to retreat further against the wall, but unable to. Yennefer wanted to say something, "it's just me", "you don't have to worry", "I won't hurt you".... Except she did.   
  
Fuck.   
  
*  
  
Geralt was silent as he cleaned Jaskier's headwound, and what was more concerning, so was Jaskier. It was eery. Geralt was starting to worry that Yen had actually broke something inside of the bard's head.   
  
As he cleaned the blood on the for eh ad and side of his friend's head, Geralt saw that the eyes were shiny. Shit. It was... It was complicated dealing with emotions in a way that wasn't by killing or fucking. But Jaskier didn't need either of those things (probably). He needed a friend, someone to listen.   
  
"Are you.... Are you all right, Jaskier?"   
  
He wasn't all right. His head was throbbing, he saw stars every time he moved his head a bit too quick and it was.... His head hurt, and not because of the blow.   
  
"I thought... She liked me." there was a small self-deprecating laugh "What was I thinking, right? No matter how much I try, I will always just be a burden to the both of you."  
  
Geralt's slowly beating heart was complaining at the sorrow in Jaskier's eyes, at the hopelessness in his eyes.   
  
"No. She does like you, what happened today was just.... Collateral damage. Accidents happen."  
  
Jaskier looked at the witcher, a curious look in his eye.   
  
"Are you trying to cheer me up?"   
  
"Maybe. Is it working?"   
  
"Not much, sorry."  
  
"Hmmm."  
  
Geralt put a bandage with some herb salve on Jaskier's head, trying to find the right words.   
  
"You're not a burden, Jaskier. You helped us deal with the world, contain ourselves, be more human."  
  
Geralt sighed. It was hard for him to say these things, but...   
  
"You... Jaskier, you've helped us not hurt ourselves, too. Love who we are more, and let us be loved. You're not a burden. Don't say that."  
  
Jaskier wanted to believe that, of course he did, but... It was hard. He'd been let down one too many times, and trusting was becoming harder and harder.   
  
"Geralt?"   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"I'm hurt."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Give me a hug?"   
  
And Geralt was a mighty witcher, a mutant with no feelings, the butcher of Blaviken... But seeing that stupidly adorable bard there, with his head bandaged up...   
  
"Hmmm."   
  
Of course he had to comply.   
  
*  
  
"What do I do, Geralt? How do I fix it?"   
  
Yennefer was... concerned.   
  
She'd never had a friend like this before. Back in her arm she was a pest to be avoided, Istredd had been getting information from her, the other girls at Aretuza had been more rivals than anything and whatever Geralt and her had... It was different.   
  
But Jaskier had been her friend, and he'd been fun and relatively welcoming despite his initial apprehension and she'd ruined everything.   
  
"Well, to start you should probably tell him you didn't want hurt him. You haven't already, right?"   
  
She hadn't, which was stupid. Maybe she'd been afraid to see the fear in his eyes, the rejection. They had been friends and she had thrown him against a wall and knocked him unconscious. That's no way to treat a friend.   
  
"He's so nice, Geralt. We treat him like shit, and he's so nice. He apologized to me for wanting to leave me to die after the djinn happened, even though I threatened him and forced him to make his wish, I... I'm not used to people being nice to me."  
  
"Takes some time."  
  
"So what do I do?"   
  
"You're asking me for advice?" the level of incredulity in Geralt's voice was unprecedented.   
  
"Well, you've known him for long... But you're right, I know better. I will fix this, I can fix this. Thanks for the help, Geralt."  
  
Geralt didn't know what he'd done to help but was feeling, proud, happy. Was he really the most emotionally competent in this whole business?  
  
(that... didn't speak well of the others)  
  
*  
  
There was a brand new pale blue lute in his room, and another one in pieces as Jaskier walked back (slowly, the world was still turning a bit too quick).   
  
"..... What?"   
  
"I enchanted it, so it won't be broken, and it's sound will be clearer, and be heard even in the noisiest of taverns."  
  
"And the broken one?"   
  
"Belonged it a certain Valdo Marx? I hear we don't like him."  
  
The ghost of a smile. A shiver and a dizzy spell.   
  
Fuck.   
  
Jaskier sat in the bed, and Yen next to him, but leaving some space. She looked at him, determined.   
  
"You know I did mean to hurt you, right? It was an accident, and I would take it back if I could."  
  
Jaskier was quiet. It may annoy them, the constant chatter, but it bothered everyone when he was quiet.   
  
"Does your head hurt a lot?"   
  
"It does."  
  
"I'm sorry, little bard. I'm sorry. Can we still be friends?"   
  
"Yen...."   
  
"I will miss you so very badly if you say no."  
  
"You really didn't want to slam me against that wall."  
  
"There's many people in this world that I want to hurt. Many, many, hell, most of the people I've met. They're ignorant, or condescending, or boring. But not you. I'm sorry I hurt you, Jaskier. Please, forgive me."  
  
There was a slight nod and a small smile from Yennefer.   
  
" So... Did you see Valdo's face when he found out?"  
  
Oh yes.   
  
Shared malice.   
  
The mark of true friendship, despite the head wounds and uncertainty. 


	3. Drowning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after 1X06 but vaguely

Why did he always get in the middle of things?

Geralt tried not to meddle. Geralt tried to do his job in a way that everyone would be happy, in a way that he would be left alone and forgotten if possible. And yet, he’d ended up with a reputation of both being a heartless and a white wolf and friend of humanity, ended up with a child surprise, ended up in the middle of wars and horrors.

He was currently being held captive by some ratty looking men who had shackled him to a wall, one arm at each side, and had a scarily wicked look in their eye, all two of them. He didn’t know what the hell they wanted, but he knew that he couldn’t let himself out of those shackles, despite his superhuman strength. Maybe the cuffs were enchanted, maybe it was super string steel. Whatever it was, Geralt was getting a bit bored of being put in a cell and chained, and couldn’t wait for this situation to be over.

“What is it that you want?” He growled, when the skinny little men came back again, with those glares.

“You know Yennefer of Vengerberg, do you not, witcher?”

Why was she involved in this?

“I... do.”

“Well, then, you will tell us what her weaknesses are, how to defeat her. She... mocked us, and humiliated us. We want to do the same to her, but need some information.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“Why would I tell you anything? Yen is scarier than you.”

“Oh, because we can make you hurt.”

And so one of the men got out a little metal thing, with some sort of lightning shiny part on the top. The man put it in Geralt’s chest....

“Tickles. Cute.”

Had they really thought they could hurt a witcher so bad that he would give up a scary witch’s secrets?

“Time for the back up plan, then.”

There was a big bucket full of water, like the ones you use for bathing, that one of the men brought. And the other man... The other man brought a skinny figure with hands tied and colourful clothing. Jaskier.

“I think you’ve met, right?” The first man, the one with the scar on his lip, said. “The bard that keeps singing your praises, is he not?”

How did they mean to use Jaskier for in this plan? Geralt wasn’t liking this.

“Now, witcher” the second man, who had a big tooth gap and smelled of fish, said, getting close to Geralt. “Now you will tell us what we want you know or we will drown your bard friend in that very water.

Jaskier's lower lip was trembling. Great. Just fucking great. Geralt and Yennefer couldn’t care less about him, and now he was going to die for them. After the threats and the heartbreak, he got to be drowned. The fun just never ended.

“Hmmmm.”

Geralt was....conflicted. He wanted to pretend that he didn’t care about Jaskier so that the guys would think it pointless to drown him and go back to trying to hurt him, but it was painful to pretend not to care about Jaskier when he was in this situation because of him, because of them. And besides, he didn’t know if he’d reacted too much when he saw the bard. Probably not. Humans weren’t that perceptive.

So there was still a chance that they thought he didn’t care about the bard and would leave him alone.

“He’s not my friend. You can do whatever you want with him.”

Great. Just fucking great. Jaskier was going to die a terrible violent death and the last words that he was going to hear were Geralt denying they were ever friends and feeding him to the wolves. He’d like to think that the witcher was protecting him... But no. He’d heard the “we’re not friends” bit too many times. He knew it to be true. He tried not to let tear cloud his eyes. Tried to have the most dignified death.

“All right, then.” Fish smell said, taking Jaskier by the neck and plunging his head, holding it down in the water.

Geralt pretended not to care. Not to care. Not to care.

Not to care as Jaskier’s limbs flailed, not to care as he heard those awful gurgling noises, not to care. But it was Jaskier. And if those limbs stopped moving...

“All right, stop!”

And the man released Jaskier, when run out of the tub, completely soaked, and just fell to his knees on the floor, coughing like a dying dog, trying to recover the lost air.

Fuck. That had been scary and awful and he’d been certain he was going to die, because he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe...

“You have a problem with Yennefer I can help you. But only if you release him. He’s just a bard, he had nothing to do with this.”

Scar lip just scoffed.

“But then we would be back at the start! We would try to hurt you, you would too strong... No, I think we are going to keep with this plan. Kario?”

No, no, no, no! Jaskier hadn’t stopped coughing and he was being thrown back in that bucket. What had he done to deserve this? To not be able to breathe, to fight against captors desperately only to hurt yourself, fuck, he couldn’t breathe, fuck there was waters in his lungs he could practically feel it, fuck...

“Witcher. Don’t pretend you don’t care, I can see you wincing! You do care. Now tell us a way to defeat the witch before your bard friend breathes his last.”

“I don’t know!”

“Wrong answer!”

Was it his imagination or was the flailing dying out? No, for the love of God, no!

Jaskier could see darkness encroaching laid a last sigh into the water... He’d died scorned and friendless, like he lived most of his life. A fitting end, perhaps. But it was a pity - he hadn’t wanted it to end.

“Look, if I knew I would tell you, all right? I am sure that Yennefer can handle the both of you with her eyes closed even with whatever information I might give you but I’ve only met her twice and I honestly don’t know how to stop her.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“LET HIM GO!”

And there was something blue coming out of Geralt’s hands, something that (finally!) broke his shackles and threw the men against the wall, knocking them out.

Geralt immediately went to Jaskier, got him out of that tub... But his eyes were closed, and he didn’t seem to be breathing any more. He was pale and unmoving and the last words he’d heard were “he’s not my friend”. Of course he was, he was the best and practically only friend he’d ever had, and now he was lying on the floor, unmoving, not breathing, because he’d been caught in the midst of... witches and witchering.

It wasn’t fair.

“Jaskier, come on. Don’t do this!”

Don’t die.

He thought back to his witcher training, there had been chapters on sea monsters and what to do if you’d swallowed too much water, if there was whatever inside... Force it out of the ribcage. Make it get out. It wasn’t painless, and it wasn’t elegant but what was he going to do, kill him more?”

“You’re not going to die like this, Jaskier, you’re not!”

There was a sharp elbow on the bards chest, quick but sharp... But nothing happened. Jaskier just lay there, all quiet and pale and angel looking and maybe Geralt should accept that he was gone, but he couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t!

_You can’t leave me... I just got you back._

He tried the elbow again, he pushed and pushed on his friend’s ribcage... Something snapped. But that wasn’t the only movement.

Jaskier burst back to life, coughing profusely, coughing like there was no tomorrow, and then retching some water, right there on the floor, and then coughing some more. And then some more. Geralt had his hand on the bard’s back, and was smiling. For some terrifying seconds he thought he’d lost him, that he was gone, forever. Someone so important in his life, and he would lost, like that, so easily.

But now...

Coughing. Wasn’t coughing the best sound ever?

“Breathe, Jaskier.”

More coughing.

“Breathe, my friend.”

Jaskier’s drenched eyebrows shot up to the sky.

“Now we’re friends?”

Geralt smiled, for once.

“We always were. I was just an idiot, Jaskier, we always were friends.”

.......

“.... Forgive a friend for breaking your ribs?”


	4. Fevers

He doesn't know exactly where he is, what is happening. All he knows is that there are eyes on top of him, too bright eyes of odd colours, surrounded by pale halos.

Jaskier is cold, so terribly cold and he is shivering non stop, his body aching fiercely. He doesn't know really why his head hurts so much, or why all of his joints scream every time he tries to move. Why he feels so terribly exhausted and dizzy even though he doesn't remember the last time he was awake. His body hurts more than words can describe, and he's cold, he's very cold, and he vaguely wonders if he's dying.

Must be, if he's being looked after by angels.

They have familiar voices, the angels, one is lower and the other higher, and Jaskier feels like he knows them, but can't make the connection to the actual people or places those voices may belong to. Maybe it's part of being an angel, that they always feel familiar, always feel like they belong.

And they are taking good care of him, yes they are. There's sometimes water for him to drink, and occasionally some damp cloth in his forehead. It shouldn't be pleasant, with how cold he is, but it offers an unpathomable feeling of relief. Sometimes, one of the angels, the one with the lower voice, caresses his cheeks, his hair, looks at him with eyes full of melancholy.

Jaskier wants to tell the angel that it's okay, that angels should be sorrowful like that, but all that comes out is broken dry moan like sound. His head can't think of words and his throat can't produce them. He hurts and he's so cold, but he wants to let the angel know that he's there, that it's okay, that whatever's wrong will get better. It's important that he knows.

He can't really speak, and trying to move is hell on earth, but he can move his hand up.

The big angel with bright golden eyes takes it with both his hands, a shadow of a smile in his face.

"You will get better." the angel says, and God he knows that voice. "You will get better."

*

"He's not getting any better, Ciri. We must be doing something wrong."

"Some illnesses take more time to pass." she said, with that smug confidence. "You need to wait a bit longer."

Geralt didn't want to wait any longer. He'd been sitting by Jaskier's bedside for five days and every minute felt like an eternity. Ciri, who had experience on the best of cares on account of having being a princess with royal physicians and healers and when something was very serious the greatest doctors of the continent would come, for her, for her grandparents... They were the most important people in the realm, so they got the best care.

Geralt didn't know shit about best care. Geralt knew about close wounds with burning irons and herb salves that burned in your flesh. He knew about pain, about making it so you didn't die, but only in the most rudimentary of ways. Ways that left you scarred, and that hurt every part of you. And that was not what he wanted for Jaskier.

He wanted the royal care thing, with the clean sheets, and the soft whispering and making him feel like he was in heaven. The soothe and the calm and soft sounds. But he had no patience. And being that soft... After oh so many years of being the roughest version of himself, being so careful didn't come easy. Being with Ciri had helped to soften his edges but this... It went so slow.

And Geralt was not an impatient man, not at all. Sometimes he would have to wait days or weeks to catch a monster. Sometimes his job would involve staking out, making guard, waiting entire days and nights while awake, waiting for the best moment to strike. And he had no problem with that, with waiting there. But now...

Jaskier was suffering, and Geralt wanted his friend to be okay now. And despite all that they were waiting, despite the days and the nights, the teas and the baths, the cloths and salves, he wasn't getting any better. The bard's fever was alarmingly high, his clothes stuck to his body with sweat and he didn't seem to know where he was or who were they, instead muttering nonsense and holding his hand at best. Maybe they were doing something wrong - or maybe there was nothing to be done.

Geralt knew that other people had already succumbed to these fevers, and if that after all these days without any improvement... If it was someone else he'd advise the family to start getting the funeral arrangements ready, to say goodbye. But he couldn't, wouldn't say goodbye to Jaskier. Not now, so soon, not ever, not even after a million lives of travelling together.

So there he was, the great Geralt of Rivia, the renowned white wolf, the butcher of Blaviken, hunched over himself in a small chair next to a bed - the same place he'd been these last days. 

"He'll be fine." Ciri said, behind him - always silent as a ghost that girl, she'd come into the room without him realising- "He's a fighter. Wouldn't have survived travelling with you for that long if he wasn't strong."

Geralt sighed. Maybe all the travelling that he'd done was what had weakened Jaskier, what had made him fall ill.

"Destiny won't take him so soon." Ciri said, matter-of-factly.

Geralt nodded and sent a grateful look her way.

Did Ciri know what Jaskier's destiny was? No idea at all. But she knew that if she said that it would make Geralt be a little less worried, and she wanted him to feel a bit better. She could tell that seeing his friend in such a bad state affected him deeply, and that he was haunted by all the bad words and cruelty he'd directed at poor Jaskier. It was unnecessary suffering for now - it didn't help. So she tried to make things better, to make the time until Jaskier recovered a bit less hellish.

And recover he did, after a couple more days in which he was nearly gone. Jaskier had a seizure from the high fever on the last day, his body jerking uncontrollably, as Geralt held him so he would not hurt himself. A couple of tears fell from the Witcher's eyes as he held him. It was... It was difficult to handle, to see, to hear, to experience. He just wanted Jaskier to be okay.

The next day his fever started going down and the day after that he was coherent and aware of his surroundings when he woke.

Geralt smiled. Ciri cheered.

Jaskier understood what the angels he had seen had been and felt blessed by destiny, to have such angels by his side. Some would consider them monster, hunt them down...

But under all the black leather, big swords and people hurting screams...

They were soft and nice like the sweetest of pies. 


	5. Bleeding through the bandages

“Hold on, Jaskier!”

But Jaskier was barely holding on. One of the beast?s claws had slashed him, deeply, a big bleeding gash starting from a corner of his chest and ending near the bellybutton, a gash that had bled a lot, and was still bleeding, tainting the rudimentary bandages Geralt had fashioned with some cloth he’d been using to transport supplies.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

He’d been distracted and nearly disembowelled by that monster and Jaskier had stepped in, because he was an idiot who apparently had no fear of anything. And now he was bleeding out, barely hanging to the witcher’s waist while they rode on Roach, galloping fast to try and reach a village, some place with a healer, or a mage, or something.

Geralt didn’t say this often, but the facts were these: he was scared.

Scared that Jaskier would pass out, fall from the horse and injure himself further; scared that they were too far from a village, or that when they got to the village there was no healer or the healer told them it was too late.

The bard’s lip were already turning a very unpleasant shade of blue, and Geralt knew that time was running out. He’d given him a beverage that was supposed to stop bleeding, but it had done nothing for his friend, who refused to mend. He was still bleeding, red seeping from the bandages to his shirt, and down on Roach’s brown fur, red , red too much red. He was bleeding a lot, and every drop of blood was one more reason for Geralt to worry.

He asked Roach to go faster and the mare complied, as if knowing that the situation was dire, going faster than she’d ever gone before.

Because the situation was indeed quite dire. They were at least half a day from the town where they got the job - and Jaskier had been injured in his abdomen and chest, possibly having damaged some of the organs he needed to live, like the lungs or the stomach. The sounds he was making as he breathed were definitely not nice. Definitely not natural.

Why was Jaskier like that? Why had he felt the need to protect him with his own body, why was he always looking out for him, why?? It made no sense, given how little he got in return. The notion of just how much Jaskier had done for him (making him well liked instead of hated through his songs, asking him how he was, providing a much needed company after too long alone with his thoughts, saving him from being possibly clawed to death...) tasted bitter in his mouth, because Geralt had much trouble returning that affection.

He wanted to, because he cared about Jaskier a lot, much more than what he’d be willing to admit even to himself, but it was hard for him. What could he do? Embrace him? Pat him in the back? Tell him just how much he’d missed him when they ran into each other again after being separated? It sounded like a bit too much, like he would choke on the words. Unnatural, uncomfortable. But he had to do something. Jaskier needed to know, Jaskier should have that little comfort of knowing that yes, Geralt did care too.

But first he had to live, and that was looking like it was not going to be an easy feat.

The bard’s hold on his waist was fainter and fainter, and Geralt could see how incredibly pale Jaskier was now, unable to talk, barely able to keep his eyes open.

“Don’t you die on me, Jaskier.” Geralt said, somewhere between angry and terrified. “I need you, all right? Do you hear me, Jaskier? I still need you, don’t you dare leave me.”

And maybe it was those words what was needed, because Jaskier’s hold tightened, even if it was almost imperceptible. Geralt felt he could breathe a little easier, and kept galloping towards somewhere, somewhere were hopefully they would be able to help Jaskier heal properly, where they would make him stop bleeding. Because he was still bleeding Geralt could tell, the bandages were all crimson now, no place for the faded white any more, drenched in blood...

He was still bleeding when they arrived to the town, bleeding when Geralt carefully took him off Roach. Bleeding when his blue eyes finally closed, which made Geralt practically panic and fucking hurry to the healer with his friend in his arms.

It had been a close call, the mage told Geralt when she finished working on Jaskier. He had lost so much blood that his heart had nearly stopped beating. Even with the spells and potions she had provided, he would still need a lot of time to recover, and it would leave a big scar.

Geralt nodded, somber, realising just how close he’d been to losing one of his best friends, if not the best (if not the only). He looked at the discarded bloodied bandages and an unintentional shiver coursed through him. He had to do better by Jaskier, he had to do his best. He had to do more.

The bard spent the next four days sleeping and healing, and in them Geralt never left his side. Helped clean him, helped the mage put salves make the sleeping man gulp down a couple of potions. This he could do. This was easy. The difficult part came when Jaskier woke up and they would have to....(shudder) talk.

But Geralt had to do it, and wanted to do it.

When he saw those blue eyes open again... He spoke.

“Jaskier, I....” _say it, say it!_ “was very concerned for you.”

“You were?”

_Don’t stop now!_

“I was.” _Come on, Geralt! Keep on!_ “You.... You are important to me, Jaskier. You mean much... to me.”

“Oh, Geralt, you have no idea how much it warms me to hear you say that.”

“Well, it’s true. So don’t you ever do something like that, you foolish reckless bard!” Geralt said, and realising he was going back to his old ways, added. “Don’t endanger yourself. I hate seeing you hurt.”

Jaskier smiled and said softly:

“I still have some time in bed, would you lie behind me so I can get warmer?”

Geralt nodded and climbed up to the bed and held on to his friend.

 _Don’t ever let him go again, Geralt._ He told himself.

_Hold on to Jaskier._


	6. Shock collar

Geralt didn’t know what contraption was, and that was what scared him the most. Through all of his very many years and during all of his travels he’d become very much acquainted with all sorts of weapons, so to be seeing something that he couldn’t identify...

Not good.

It was a big metal box with a small lever and a... round metal thing... A collar. Currently surrounding Jaskier’s neck. It certainly didn’t bode well.

“Are you not going to give us anything then, Witcher?”

“I’ve told you, I don’t have any riches or treasure. Being a witcher doesn’t pay that much.”

And then they pulled the lever, and a current of something coursed through Jaskier, making him scream, close his eyes and desperately hold the chair he was sitting on, trying to ride out the intense pain.

“You’re sure there’s nothing, Witcher?”

“LET HIM GO!”

But they didn’t let him go, of course, just pulled the lever again and made Jaskier scream again as more agony made its way through his body. Fuck. Some jerks have simply imagined that he was oh so famous and could hunt magical creatures that he would have loads of money and gems, all kinds of treasure hidden and piled up from all the many years that he’d been around.

But there was not.

Thinking that of course the witcher wouldn’t give up his precious belongings just because, and that they wouldn’t be able to hurt him enough for him to yield, they decided to take some one he care about instead, and torture them. And who better than the bard than knew all about him? The bard he’d been seen with, the bard that seemed to be Geralt of Rivia’s best and only friend.

He wasn’t hard to come by, Jaskier, and getting him was as easy as inviting him to a poisoned ale. He passed out, and while he was passed out, they got him to the lair and put the collar on him. Ah, yes, the collar.

The collar made everyone talk - it had the power of dozens of lightnings hitting you. It had been a long time until they moderated the power so it wouldn’t kill the victim instantly, now it took long hours to kill, causing excruciating pain and slow but noticeable damage to tissues and organs making death a possibility, but something that just came after a lot lot lot of suffering.

They used it on the bard before finding the witcher, too, in case he knew of Geralt’s hideout.

He didn’t seem to know, but boy, did he scream beautifully.

By the time Geralt arrived, Jaskier was already spewing out blood, eyes at half mast, head hanging limply. The only times when he seemed a bit more alert were when he was shocked by the contraption, his body going, eyes closed scrunched up in pain, hands holding the wooden chair underneath him.

And Geralt had had enough. Enough of this morons, enough of Jaskier’s pain, enough charades. But the fact was, that machine seemed intricate and he didn’t know how it worked. If he just knocked out these men and tore the collar off Jaskier he may trigger something, and give his friend a final lethal.... Shock. He couldn’t risk that, he wouldn’t risk that. He needed those men to unplug the machine themselves, but his magic wasn’t strong enough to force them to do that. But he needed to do something, as time was clearly running out.

Jaskier was barely opening his eyes any more, and it was clear that the damage that machine had caused run deep. It wasn’t just the semi-conscious state or the blood falling down his mouth, but also the faint smell of burnt flesh and the blackened pieces of skin. Jaskier was very badly hurt, and he was going to need immediate and very specialized attention to recover.

Geralt cursed, watching those half opened blue eyes, the pain in them, the silent plea “ _help me, Geralt_ ”. And Geralt wanted to help, needed to help, and not just because it was his fault that the bard was in this situation, but because it was Jaskier, his Jaskier being being tortured, being hurt over and over.

In a world that was often too dark, in a world of regret and sorrow and guilt, in a world made up only of repetitive shades of black Jaskier had been a beacon of light and colour, had brought music and jokes and adventure... He had brought many good things to Geralt’s life, and he had appreciated them as he should have. He had taken Jaskier for granted, and now that he was about to lose him...

He had one last resort, and it wasn’t great, but there was someone who would have no trouble controlling those men so that they would free Jaskier and possibly even help him heal. He didn’t know if help would be forthcoming, because the way things ended...

Another shock. Another heart wrenching scream from Jaskier.

There was no more time for contemplation.

“YENNEFER!”

She came from one of her purple portals in all her black and violet glory and within seconds Jaskier was free and safe in Geralt’s arms (although unconscious because after a little sigh, he’d passed out completely) and the captors were taking turns in shocking themselves thanks to Yen’s mind numbing spells.

When they arrived to the place she was now staying at, Geralt had to let go of his friend, so that Yen would do what she did last time, and Jaskier would be fine. Geralt was breathing heavily, looking at the blood on his hands, feeling useless. Hating himself, hating this day, hating all.

Yennefer came back to tell him that Jaskier was sleeping, but that it would take him days to fully heal and wake up. That it would still be some time.

Geralt nodded wordlessly and sat on a chair next to the bed. Trying not to cry. Trying to keep it together.

“I couldn’t help you.” he said, in a whisper. If someone else hadn’t come... then Jaskier would probably be dead.

“I couldn’t help you.”

Geralt was uninjured, but knowing that, knowing that Jaskier had suffered so much and he hadn’t been able to stop it... That hurt more than a thousand swords.


	7. Infected wound

He's hurt.

Jaskier is confused and he's hurting, but he keeps walking.

He doesn't know exactly what happened. He knew at some point and there are blurry images of claws, of a creature... He was looking for Geralt, he remembers when he got mauled. There is a big gaping wound in his stomach, poorly bandaged and there is no one around, no one to help him, no one to make things make sense.

But if he found Geralt he would know what to do. He would take him in Roach and then he would be able to rest while the witcher looks for a mage or a healer. He wants to rest so much, he really does, but he knows he must find Geralt or he could die. It's too cold, he's too far from civilization, and he needs... he needs... He needs Geralt.

His head can only focus on that, because there's too much pain for anything else. Some time ago, some time ago it made sense, why he left, why he fought those creatures on his own. He had a reason, he remembers, but now that reason eludes him.

Jaskier walks, still occasionally bleeding, and his stomach is on fire. He tried to... He wanted to use herbs and water to clean and soothe the wound, but there was no water around, his own skin having disappeared some time in the fight, and no herbs, as this was a mostly desertic plain.

A desertic plain in which he walks, one step and the other, trying to keep himself awake with beautiful things, trying to come up with reasons why he should keep walking and not just curl up in the desert and die.

Songs, songs and more songs. The people's applause, the audience's smiles when he appears, the adoration in their eyes as he sings. The adventures with Geralt, all that magic, all that life, the people, the places, the rain on him, the words and baths and songs, all the wonders he's lived in the beds of strangers and not so strangers...

He must continue.

Even if his midsection is screaming, pulsating, the wound red and raw and hot, even through the bandages, even if his head is so muzzled from fever that he cannot think straight, unwilling tears falling from his bloodshot blue eyes, even then he walks. He must keep walking, he must find help.

He can't die, not now, not yet.

He needs to get... Needs to tell....

His head is swimming, he's covered in sweat and old blood but he can make it. He can make it.

He can't make it.

*

For a couple of long eternal days Geralt was looking around, fearing that something was wrong. Ad odd feeling in te back of his head, telling him that help was needed, that someone he loved was in danger, in serious danger, in grave danger. But he didn’t know were to look and was getting desperate.

Who could it be, anyway? Ciri was okay (he was checking he five minutes), Yennefer was too smart and powerful to need him and who was left.... Oh no. Geralt made Roach hurry when he realised who it was that was in trouble, cause that man was always getting in trouble usually in troubles bigger tan he could handle.

And then he remembered the dnfoldoa, and how it got his scent but he was never attacked again by it, which would have been a huge problem as Witcher’s slow beating hearts were a delicacy for these creatures- and made them even more vulnerable to them, more sought after... Some even called this creature “the witcher annihilator”. On a hunch, he left for the place where they’d last heard about the creature.

And there he found the remain of the monster, gracelessly and unprofessionally finished off... And a trail of blood.

“Fuck!”

When he found him, Jaskier was shivering, burning up in fever, and only half conscious. But those blurry too bright eyes recognised him and there was a hand, dirty and covered in old dried blood, a hand on Geralt’s cheek, a hand from a barely awake man...

“Geralt... there a monster after you.”

“Did you walk all the way just to tell me this?”

Jaskier didn’t answer, his eyes finally closing, calm after delivering his message.

Geralt took the bard in his arms and spent the next week looking after Jaskier. Tending to his fever, cleaning his wound, bathing him, making sure he was comfortable. There were jobs that Geralt ignored, Ciri made jokes about him being “a dedicated boyfriend”... The Witcher didn’t care.

Jaskier had walked all that, to tell him, had gone there, face that creature, to try and keep him safe.

He deserved a dedicated boyfriend and everything else in the world.


	8. Pinned down by wreckage

There was a loud rumble and the world fell on top of him. He barely had time to scream. He didn't have time to react. He was suddenly buried and paralyzed by the weight of a myriad rocks, that pinned him to the floor making it impossible for him to escape. 

During his travels with Geralt Jaskier had lived through so many different types of perils: creatures, wars, adventures of every kind and let's face it, the most heinous injuries too. He'd been punched till next week, he'd vomited blood, he'd lost days of his life... But Geralt had always been there, he had got him out, made things better in his gruff I-refuse-to-feel-a-feeling way. And that had gave Jaskier hope, even in the darkest of moments. But now... 

He was hidden, he was paralyzed and was alone. He'd been looking for some herbs on a small cave near the clearing where they'd been sleeping, hrbs that were supposed to make his throat be "more silky" when a tremor on the Earth had made giant rocks and debris fall on top of him. And now he was being crushed, his chest crushed, his legs crushed, he could barely... Barely think, barely form a coherent word in his head. 

Which was odd. He usually was very good with words. Why weren't words happening. Had he hit his head so bad?  
Panicking a bit and needing this situation to be over, Jaskier tried to call for help. The only thing that came out was a faint wheeze and some blood. 

  
Shit. 

  
Shit.

The rocks on him hurt a lot. It felt they were pressing hard against each of his organs, and that every second he was under that, he was closer to being broken beyond repair. What a non-epic way to go, Jaskier thought with dismay. After a life filled with drangons and elvenkings, faes and withcers and the most glorious of tales, he, the great, the triumphant Jaskier was going to be erased from history by some ugly rocks. It was unfair. It was not fitting. 

Jaskier tried to move, but the weight on him was too much, and moving hurt too much. He was going to die alone, voiceless and was going to leave an ugly deformed corpse.

As if dying wasn't bad enough? 

Would Geralt miss him? The notion that maybe no, the witcher would probably be relieved by Jaskier's death hurt almost more than the rocks that were crashing his lungs. He could deal with being gone, but being forgotten? Left to rot under some rocks, hurting and painfully agonising there in the floor. 

There was a very beautiful song in the desciption of this pain. Of this despair and finality. There was also a big scream, an enormous cry, like a wolf howling at the moon on a cloudless sky. But Jaskier couldn't sing, could barely think past the pain, couldn't... He tried to move again. More rocks fell on him. 

He was doomed. 

A small moan escaped Jaskier's lips. So uncharacteristic, he who had been always a man of big words, an unforgettable voice, a presence that affected everyone... Every second hurt more than the previous one. What would Geralt do? No, better yet, what would Yennefer do? She would pulverize any rock that dared bother her, probably just by looking at it. That would be nice. 

Jaskier was fairly certain that his head wasn't working properly, if he was thinking that being like her was nice. She was mean. Jaskier was not mean. Jaskier was made of love and songs and affection. "Look where it got you" he thought bitterly. It got him to feel the edges of the rocks cut through his skin, to practically hear his ribs breaking. 

Alone and forgotten under some rocks. Yes. he hadn't been a saint, but did he really deserve an end like this? Covered in dust, in scrapes?

Outside of a cave birds were chirping. Oh, how he would have wished to be able to sing one last song... 

*

"He looks better...." A young female voice said. 

"Hmmmmm."

"Come on, he's going to be fine in no time. "

Jaskier was coming around and not understanding much. The girl's voice sounded familiar and the hmm sounded very familiar. 

"....how?"

"He sensed something was wrong with you." The girl, Ciri as he remembered now, said. "We galloped for hours until we found you. Geralt used live-saving seals I had never seen before."

"Ciri!" Geralt said, his eyes flashing gold. 

"If he says he doesn't care about you again, you must know he's lying. He cares a lot."

Jaskier was achy, he was tired and his breath tasted like blood... But he hand't been forgotten and he wasn't alone. And now he had a chance to write songs about crushed hearts.... 

  
And happy endings. 


	9. Denied food as punishment

He’s not even hungry any more.

He used to be so so hungry. He didn’t beg, of course, he wondered when he was going to be fed, if he was going to be fed, to any guard that came close enough. He was seeing the other prisoners get food, so why not him? Was it just an occasional thing?

So yeah, he had insulted the people holding him captive, humiliated the ones transporting him and shot mocking looking the way of the guards when they decided to gag him, and yes, they had said that he would, but still...

He thought he would pay with some classical torture, some choking, some broken bones, you know, the kind where he screamed or begged to sate the sadistic little fantasies of his captors. It had happened before, it would probably happen again. He was used to it. He was more used to people hating him with a passion rather than just.... abandoning him.

No one had even come close to his cell in days.

It hadn’t been that bad, at first, he’d started his singing days subsisting on the bread people threw at him, after all. He knew hunger, and he had survived hunger. But after some days... His head hurt, his bones hurt, all of him hurt. He could smell the food they brought other prisoners’ and pleaded for it, and no one even looked at him.

His stomach made the most awful noises and he had nothing to distract himself from the loneliness, the horror of being forgotten, the hunger eating away at him... he’d been hungry before, but this, this was new. It didn’t allow him to think anything else, it was overpowering. He wanted to eat, he wanted to move, but he couldn’t.

The others were ignoring him and Jaskier screamed at them, but they didn’t pay attention, didn’t acknowledge him. As time passed he got too dizzy to get up, too scream, to... live. He was getting weaker, sleeping more, fading. It happened gradually, but quicker than he would have imagined. First it was the sleeping more. Then not having energy to stay upright for long than a few minutes, then not having the energy to get up at all.

All energy left him, and soon moving around became an incredible chore. The overpowering hunger from before started fading, and although it was a bit of a relief, Jaskier knew that it couldn’t mean anything good for him. His body still needed the food, but was already shutting down.

He was cold. His body couldn’t even produce heat anymore, and his teeth chattered and it hurt.

It was getting harder to simply stay awake. It was getting harder to be, to remember he was an actual person who was still alive, there forgotten, abandoned. Usually they left him water and took his waste at night, when he was sleeping. One night he stayed up to at least see the person bringing him the water. But that night he got no water, for having stayed up.

You will pay, they had said, and boy was he paying. He was paying dearly, with his mind softly dimming on him, his body withering, and he, the great Jaskier, one of the most famous singers of the continent there, abandoned, left to rot, without no one knowing, without no one caring.

There would be no heroic death for him, no legendary battle enough to fill a thousand songs, no monster he slayed by sacrificing his life, no story to tell. He would starve to death in a non-descript cell, and that was the worst punishment of all.

*

He’s so thin. Geralt took him in his arms and he hardly weighed anything at all. He was never a giant heavyweight, but when he carried around after the djinn incident he had weighed something. He had weighed what a normal adult person should weigh. What a healthy person would. But now...

Jaskier’s cheeks were sunken, his shoulderblades protruding. His hands bony, his limbs lifeless and he was way too cold to the touch. Geralt cursed. He cursed the situation, these most cruel jailers and himself, for having been too distracted with wars and business with other Witchers and not remembering to locate Jaskier, try to find out what became of him.

And now... He got himself in trouble like he always did, and was paying dearly. Geralt wondered, he thought... No, he didn’t want to think about how Jaskier had passed these days, alone and starving. He would imagine him calling for help and receiving only silence. Would not picture how the chatterbox he knew becoming slowly quieter, losing that light that made him inequivocably Jaskier.

Geralt refused to think about days and night spent in solitude, about a voice silenced, about the abandonemnt he must have felt as he was left to die... Would not think about how he might have screamed, about his trying to escape to no avail, about how... he may have thought that he would be rescued... About how Jaskier may have said that a Witcher had his back, and then days had passed and no one had come... No one had given him anything to eat... No he wouldn’t think of that.

He would only think about fixing it, no matter how far gone Jaskier was, no matter what he had to do. Spells, potions, whatever needed to be done.

And then Jaskier would wake up and would see him. Would know he was there. And that he hadn’t been forgotten.


	10. Internal bleeding

There's something wrong with this day, something that had been bugging Geralt for a number of hours now, but he couldn't quite put his finger on. Hmmm.   
They were just resting up in some inn after a big hunt, him and Jaskier, and there was nothing tanglibly wrong. They got food, they got the coin and they got a nice big room just for them, with a place to have a bath and all, with fresh clothes - nothing was too good for the "witcher from the song" and his bard companion. 

So this was supposed to be good for Geralt. He had the food, he had the the hygiene, he had space and wine and even people's recognition, which never got old after so many years of his life being so blatantly hated. So really, in this moment he had it all, and he wanted to be happy, but something was wrong, and he couldn't say exactly what. 

Hell, it even was silent for once without Jaskier's constat yappering... Wait, that was it! Jaskier was there, so why wasn't he speaking, or singing or driving Geralt mad with yet another one of his stories?

"Jaskier?"

"Yes?" the bard answered with a small voice, as he slowly was cleaning his lute. 

"You're quiet."

"So? I thought you preferred it like that."

How many times had Geralt complained about Jaskier's incesant talking? How many times had he cursed the bard and ordered him to shut up? How many times had he diminished the singing, gone on and on about how much he missed the silence? Well, now he had silence. And it was wrong. 

So very wrong.

Why couldn't Geralt enjoy it? He should be enjoying it, he'd been asking for this, for some blessed silence for half the time he'd travelled with Jaskier. But he didn't understand this change of attitude and he was... Bothered. Yes, people had thrown Geralt out of town, spat on him, beasts had taken chunks of limbs from him only for him to receive no pay and he hadn't been this bothered. But now... 

Why wasn't Jaskier chatting him up as always? Was he angry? What had he done? Geralt was suffering, loath as he was to admit. 

Jaskier would picked up and enjoyed Geralt's duscomfort if he didn't feel so terrible bad. He'd had a bad fall in the last hunt, and now his stomach and his head hurt. And the more time passed, the more poorly he felt. But he wouldn't give Geralt the satisfaction of asking for his help, seeking his attention. 

No, sir. Jaskier could handle whatever was happening without that big oaf of a man's help or attention. If he didn't even care enough to ask if he was okay after that big fall and only ured him to move away... Well, he didn't deserve anything more than the silent treatment (also he was feeling a bit queasy and kind of didn't want to speak but that was another thing). 

Geralt thought of that fall, too, and about how he'd been... this time and many others... Well, blunt. Cutting. (Rude, admit it). Maybe that was why he wasn't speaking? But that couldn't be all of it. Jaskier wasn't just quieter, he looked paler and there was something wrong with his heartbeat, with his breathing. 

"Jaskier. Are you... Are you all right?"

Yes, it was nice of him to ask, but asking wasn't enough. He wanted to... Jaskier wanted to stop hurting, and for the world to stop tilting but he wanted to, needed to win this thing, whatever silent battle they had going on. He wanted to keep being angry at Geralt for not asking him before, when he fell and for taking this long to realise he'd been quiet and that something was wrong. 

But he didn't know how much he could keep up. 

And Geralt was losing his patience. He walked in front of Jaskier and just asked, with a stern expression. 

"What hurts?"

Well, this hurt. Couldn't he look more concerned if he knew Jaskier was hurting?

"I'm fine."

Jaskier stood up and tried to leave the room, but the world tilted too much, there was darkness surrounding him and he... he... was falling. But somebody caught him. 

"Jaskier?"

Those golden eyes were on him, and then the impossible happened. They softened. An aura of concern in them. Jaskier took that as win, despite the dizziness and almost fainting. 

Geralt felt bad. He should have realised something sooner, should have made sure Jaskier was whole after their last job. Should have noticed what was wrong before that. Now Jaskier was pale and clammy and... 

After placing him on the bed, with Jaskier still muttering that he was fine, Geralt thought of the places that had taken the brunt of the impact of the fall. Jaskier passed out. Geralt cursed. 

He lifted the white shirt the bard had been wearing and... Shit. A patch of purple skin, getting bigger practically each second. This was bad. 

"Jaskier, wake up. We have to get you to a healer."

But Jaskier wasn't waking up, and his breathing was louder and more strained... Was this part of his punishment? Just Jaskier trying to make him angry?

"I... I am sorry Jaskier. I took you for granted, I always do. I should have... made sure that you weren't hurt. But now, it is enough. Speak, all right? I learned my lesson."

The purple patch of skin was getting bigger. Jaskier had his arms on his midsection, because the pain had got worse. Ever since he got up to leave his innards were screaming. Something was wrong inside him, and it was not just some bruise to tell his lovers he got while hunting for a dragon Not just a bruise Geralt would consider unimportant. It was something worse than that, and they both were realising it.

Geralt suddenly longed for Jaskier's usual endless chatter, yearned for it.

But Jaskier wasn't speaking, he just let out moans and softly mentioned "it" hurting, and softly called his name (Geralt?) as if recognising him for the first time. No. No no no no. And then his eyes closed, again, and he was quiet. Oh so so so quiet. 

Blessed silence. His own words, coming back to haunt him. 

He put Jaskier behind him on Roach as they rode to the town Mage, who was supposed to be able to cure all ills. And Jaskier continued to be quiet.   
The mage told Geralt to leave her alone with Jaskier but Geralt didn't want to go. What good are you, any way? He sighed. 

Jaskier had got hurt and got bad press because of him, Jaskier had been berated and insulted and.... But Geralt thought it was okay, because Jaskier never let that stop him, it seemed that he didn't even care, he just kept talking and talking.... And now that he wasn't talking Geralt was realising just how empty his life was without that voice.   
Ours passed and Geralt couldn't take it anymore, so he burst in the room where Jaskier was, needing news. Luckily the woman was not as rude/scary as Yen and she kindly explained that some of Jaskier's organs had sustained some heavy damage in the fall and started bleeding inside of him. 

She could fix it, but it would take a while. 

And in the mean time Jaskier lay there, silent and pale, after getting hurt again (one way or the other he was always getting hurt, wasn't he? Beaten up by elves, the djinn incident, those harsh words at the mountain...). 

Thanks to the mage the purple skin started receded, andd Jaskier started getting more colour on his skin. The hours were long and slow, but he seemed to be on the mend, and Geralt waited by him, waited and waited. Until....

"...who.... where...?"

"Jaskier. It is so good to hear your voice again."

That it was. 


	11. Tortured for information

"I already told you. We're not even friends." he said, blue eyes shining, stubborn determination exhuding all of him.

Why wasn't he breaking? How could he endure so much, if he was just a bard?

"Now, we know that is not true." the mage said, looking at his enforcer partner. "So why don't you tell us what you know and we can leave you alone."

Well, that sounded like a dream come true. Being left alone.

Since that couple had snatched hom from the inn where he was soundly sleeping, Jaskier had been beaten, kicked and punched, held by the hair, strangled until he nearly passed out... His face was a mess of bruises and blood, blood was indeed the only thing he could taste and couldn't see all that well out of one way.

To say that he was hurt would be an understatement.

But he refused to say anything of Geralt. While the Witcher knew how to handle himself, Mages could be dangerous and he would rather go through anything rather than endanger his friend. Because that was what they were, no matter what Geralt said - they were friends, but Geralt's mean words were proving very useful now.

He could throw them at his kidnappers, throw them up so they wouldn't hurt him anymore - get them out. And they rang true, didn't they, because Jaskier had once believed them.

"He hates my company, actually so this is all a waste of time."

The enforcer was doubtful.

"What if he's right? What if he doesn't know anything?"

"No, he knows, he's been seen with the Witcher too many times to know nothing. We just haven't given him enough motivation to talk."

And so came the fire. The fire... the fire was horrible. Jaskier could feel those small flames burning his skin, burning his flesh, in his stomach in his chest, in his neck. It burned and it felt wrong, so wrong, not just the pain but the smell... And yes, the pain too. Being burned hurt in a different, too intense way, that started at the burned place but spread all over, and it shouted that this needed to stop, it hurt it hurt it hurt!!

But Jaskier said nothing, although his eyes were tearing up a little.

"I told you... We aren't even friends."

He thought nothing could be as bad as the fire but then came the acids. They burned even more viciously and ate the flesh, they ate so much and in so horrifying ways that Jaskier could barely stay awake, but even then, with his forearms raw and smelling of acid, he kept quiet.

"He didn't... wouldn't let me know.... I couldn't know, I didn't know..."

The tears came as they brought in the next device.

Arrows. So they could shoot them at him and then painfully take them out and then shoot them at him again. This people were definitely creative, at least.

But Jaskier was tired. All of his body was exhausting, and the pain from all his combined wounds was almost overpowering - and yet they wouldn't let him sleep or faint, which was in itself a form of torture. He didn't want to die, but he wanted this to end. It had been enough - in fact, it had been way too much. He wanted the men to go.

He needed this to be over.

A little voice told him that the men would leave him if he just told them. Because he knew, of course he knew the things these people were asking him. He knew where Geralt had been headed, he knew some of his weakest points, he knew how these people could lure him into a trap and then subdue him, forcing him to give his money and weapons, maybe they could even force him to do some work for them.

Geralt may have meant those words when he said them, but there was no truth in them. They were friends, no matter what they witcher said, and they were close. Had been for many, many years. So yeah, of course Jaskier knew all of this and it would save him from a world of pain, but he could not say anything, he had to keep quiet, he couldn''t betray his trust.

No matter how much he'd been hurt by Geralt's careless words or his aloofness, they had been there for each other, through all of those years they had constructed something that was worth keeping safe. Worth bleeding and worth crying for. He had thought of lying but the mage knew all his tells, so he could only say these "not really lies because Geralt said it at some point" little things.

So yes, his arms were on fire, his neck all bruised from the big hands on it, his chest was full of burns, his face a mess of bruises and blood... But he had no intention of talking. He didn't have much hope than Geralt would come and save him, either - yes, they were friends, but they weren't always in touch. Sometimes they spent years without seeing each other.

There was no reason for Geralt to seek him out, no reason for him to even know Jaskier was missing. It would take a while still, for him to be missed, for people not to think he'd simply ran out to avoid paying the innkeeper.

So yeah, more and new ways of pain coming and no hope of rescue.

If he made it out, this was going to be great material for ballads.

He let out a small scream as three arrows entered his body. Then he coughed up some blood.

He was probably not going to make it, was he?

*

"This so called mage had been extorting and assaulting many fols on the area, so we made up a team of knights and mercenaries to take him down. And in his place, we found him too, mumbling about how he wasn't going to say anything, that they could stop, he wasn't going to say anything. He's the one that travels with you, isn't he? The bard."

"He is."

"Yeah, we figured they may be trying to information on a witcher, try to get some scary big guy like you. But he wouldn't say anything, apparently."

There was a dangerous look in Geralt's eye as he watched his friend sleep wounds still visible in his neck, his hands, his face.

"This mage.... tortured Jaskier?"

"Yes, quite... extensively too, it was practically miraculous that he was still alive when we found him. And well, he still has a long way to go, but he wakes up random minutes through the day, enough to be fed, and the healer thinks that he can make a recovery. He will have tons of scars, though. Half of him is scar tissue."

Geralt held his sword.

"This mage..."

"Was killed by one of the mercenaries in the struggle, as was his enforcer friend. I am told it was quite painful."

"Good."

Geralt sat down next to the bed, after thanking the villager for calling him. He would find a way to make the scars fade. Maybe even some spell so he could forget the pain, and the fear - forget that he was ever tortured. And he was not going to leave the bard's side in a very long time.

Because Jaskier was his friend no matter what.

And maybe Geraly needed to appreciate all that Jaskier did for him a bit more. 


	12. Raspy breathing

It bothered him. Geralt was very very bothered by this situation.

Geralt was tied up, had been beaten up and was i a very cold place... But what bothered him the most wasn’t any of them, or even the insults of his captors.

What bothered him the most was that rhythmic noise that was coming from behind, and from someone else. Jaskier, of course. But not Jaskier speaking as usual, talking about plans and strategies to get out, about the song that he was going to write about this, about how rude those monsters were being.

Suddenly, that inane chatter wasn't that bothersome, suddenly, and even if he would never admit it out loud, he kind of missed Jaskier's constant tirade, the vomiting of word. He wished for the words, for the one-sided conversation, as bothersome as it may have felt. Because this...

Jaskier wasn't talking, and that should be making Geralt happy. It should be easier to concentrate without Jaskier talkier his ear off. But it wasn't. Because even if Jaskier wasn't saying anything, he was making noise, just by breathing.

Because someone had punched Jaskier in the chest, reppeatedly, probably broke something there, and now Jaskier was... Making noises while he breathed. Very unpleasant noises. And he was quiet, he wasn't speaking, which was also othering Geralt a whole lot. Because this was not a "I am quiet because I see that anthing I say is going to make you angry" kind of moment, this was a "I am quiet because trying to say thing hurts too much" kind of moment.

Jaskier's breaths were labored, raspy and painful sounding, and his coughs were dry and made it sound like he couldn't get any air. He sounded hoarse, his breathing and coughing too dry, too harsh. And it bothered Geralt, Jaskier was a Bard, he neeeded his voice, and he needed to breathe to be alive, and... be...him...

And with each raspy breathing sound, Geralt was getting more angry. What right did these people have to go against Jaskier, anyways? He was just a bard, and a companion, and these people had no right to go against him. And yet they did, and they hurt him bad, because Jaskier wasn't wearing armour, and should he do something about that?? Get the man some armour??

But that would be like saying that he didn't mind having Jaskier to be following him on adventures, which was true, he actually quite liked the company more often than not, but he wasn't ready to admit that, much less to Jaskier know. That he liked having him around, wanted him to be safe. Which he did. But saying it...

Ugh, he didn't like to be thinking all these things, but Jaskier wasn't talking, there was only the sound of painful breathing which meant Geralt was alone with his thoughts. And that coughing.

"Hmmmmmgggghhhhhh"

He disliked this situation profoundly. Jaskier was a simple mortal, he could have serious issues from whatever had broken inside of him. And even if he didn't, he was hurting just to breathe, and that was not acceptable. Yeah, yeah, he knew that he had hurt Jaskier too, but he had regretted it, and was trying very actively not to hurt the man again.

And yet, despite his best efforts, Jaskier was hurt, because idiotic captors hadn't got the memo. He wasn't getting very pale, too. Blue-ish on the skin, which was not something he was supposed to look like.

Geralt was getting angrier, as Jaskier was sounding worse. Short of breath. Pained. And it only seemed to be getting worse, and Geralt could practically hear the silent tears Jaskier was crying, from the effort, from the pain, from the despair...

"Can't... breathe..."

That was the last fucking straw.

Geralt found himself breaking the iron chains that were holding him and taking down three of the captors in a fit of anger. Before even getting his sword back. Just because hearing Jaskier like that made him really. fucking. angry.

It was over in a matter of shorts minutes, Geralt's untethered anger working faster than any sword or spell.

But still, even after those guys had been dealt with Jaskier was making that terrible noise and Geralt was still pissed and so, without thinking about it too much, he picked up Jaskier in his arms (gentle, careful, he's fragile and he's a bit broken) and angrily went to find someone who could do something about that noise.

(and something for Jaskier, and something for the pain)

And then the healer he found gave Jaskier some potion, and there was no more raspy breathing, just silence. Which should have been good, right? At least now he wasn't in pain, and with the extra of not being bothering Geralt either. It should have been good, but it wasn't completely.

Because part of Geralt was still afraid that the damage had been too extensive, that he wouldn't wake up, that he had lost Jaskier, that this healer was actually some foe using the bard unconscious as hostage to get stuff from a Witcher because surely by now everybody knew that the White wolf of Rivia was ready to do anything if his bard was hurt...

The awful noise was gone, but Geralt wasn't happy yet.

Of course it was better than that awful raspy pained sound (and perhaps Geralt had spent the entire night just listening to Jaskier breathe properly and healthily and naturally, weird as it may be) , and although silence had been his companion for much longer than this bard... Now silence wasn't good enough either.

He needed something more. Something that while annoying and sometimes downright irritating... Something that he'd come to long for, and miss when it was gone.

"Mmmmm.... What happened? Geralt? What is this place, where are we? How did we even get here?"

That voice.

That sweet, annoying, wonderful, excessive, unrelenting, but wonderful voice.

Fuck.

He'd really got attached.

Now they really needed that armour.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> You know you want to comment!


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